


The Unruly Child

by j9ac9k



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, artistic license: russian names, brief description of disordered eating, description of a panic attack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:00:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23577316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/j9ac9k/pseuds/j9ac9k
Summary: Yurio is having a rough time in this but Yuri Katsuki is looking out for him.This takes place between episodes 8 and 9.
Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri & Yuri Plisetsky
Comments: 2
Kudos: 80





	The Unruly Child

**Author's Note:**

> 100% made up a patronymic for Yurio, I'm not sure if his parents have canonical names or not.

There aren’t very many places to be alone at an international sporting event. When you really need to have a cry, but would rather not ruin your reputation as the _enfant terrible_ of Russian skating, you’re mostly out of luck. Sometimes the toilets are good, but sometimes someone’s beat you to it, and having to listen to someone else crying can really put a downer on your own breakdown.

You’d think the people who design multi-million dollar sports complexes would get onto that, but they seem much more focused on crowd flow and accessibility and other nonsense. That’s why skaters spend hundreds of dollars on noise cancelling headphones and wander around beforehand not making eye contact with each other.

The coaches stick to you like glue, too. Probably worried, not without reason, that you’ll finally snap and bolt at the last minute.

Figure skaters are also a pretty bitchy lot, something to do with jumping about with rhinestone-encrusted leotards. You noticed exactly what everyone else was doing wrong, in some kind of hope that it would stop them from saying how daft you looked. Mutually assured destruction. Of course, it worked just about as well as that ever did, just making everyone fair game. You could be sure they’d be talking shit about you next, as soon as you left the room.

Yuri Plisetsky was walking through the warm-up area with Yakov and Lilia in tow, thinking about having to perform his free program at the Rostelecom Cup, listening to the buzz of conversation around him.

“You saw the video right?”

“Everyone saw the video.”

“I mean, I just don’t get it? His skating wasn’t even that good, and _ohmygod_ was he fat!”

Yuri felt his stomach sink when he realised who they were talking about, and he tried not to make it obvious that he was eavesdropping, stopping himself from spinning around and scowling straight at them.

“I don’t see why Victor would drop everything, fly to Japan, and become that guy’s coach.”

“I heard they’re fucking.”

“That’s gross, no way.”

“Maybe he’s got a thing about fat Asian guys.”

Yuri saw red, it felt like water boiling up inside of him as they talked. But the peals of laughter at that last comment cut through the heat of his anger, chilling him. A growing cold spread out from his stomach into his arms and legs and blanked out his brain. He had to get out. All of a sudden the press of people about him, the sound of their chatter, made him feel sick. He bolted. Despite short legs, he’d always been a fast runner, and was halfway across the room before Yakov shouted after him what the hell did he think was he playing at.

“Gotta go piss!” he shouted back, getting an eye-roll from Yakov and snickers from the other people in the room who happened to be listening. Nothing out of character for the Russian Punk.

He dashed past the toilets and down the stair well, not really thinking about where he was going but just following the glowing green exit signs, looking for fresh air. He came to a door fairly quickly, maybe those stadium designers were doing something right, and crashed through, panting, into an undercover car park. He shouldn’t be short of breath, he thought, he hadn’t even run for two minutes. But he couldn’t seem to catch his breath and the low ceiling and the shadows seemed to be crushing in on him. He crouched down, tucking his knees up to his chest, pulling at his own hair. He could feel the pain in his scalp but it wasn’t really _him_ , he was watching from outside, laughing at this little fucking cry baby. “What are they gonna say about you now you little shit?” he thought, and it was in a hard, cold voice, not screaming or crying like he was outside, “you’re going to be a laughing stock.”

All the while he couldn’t seem to get a proper breath, his chest felt too tight, his breathing coming too quickly. He could feel hot tears trickling down his burning cheeks. It was like the world was falling on top of him, crushing him, Christ was he going to die like this?

Suddenly a voice cut through, “Yurio? Yurio, are you alright?”

There were only two people who called him by that stupid nickname and one of them had just run off to Japan to see a man about a dog.

He looked up to see Yuuri Katsuki’s concerned face as he knelt beside him. He sucked in a rattling breath, trying to get enough air to speak.

“No…” he said, wanting to scream, but it just came out as a choked whisper.

All the anger he usually felt seeing Yuuri, mostly a habitual response by this point, drained from him. He still couldn’t breath, he was scared. He wasn’t angry or jealous of Yuuri at this moment, just terrified about what was happening to him.

Seeing his red, tear-stained face, Christ, he must look a fucking picture, Yuuri seemed to make an effort of look calm, his wrinkled brow smoothing out as he took a breath.

“Yuri, please look at me,” he said gently, in a soft, flat voice “just look at me, that’s all you have to do.”

He looked up, his hands were still gripping his hair and he scowled at Yuuri. Of all the people to see him like this, why did it have to be _him_? It seemed like their lives were tangled up together, whether Yuri liked it or not.

Yuuri smiled a little, “can you tell me what you see?”

What was this bullshit, was he just having a laugh with him? “I see,” Yuri paused to suck in air, “I see your stupid face.”

Not put off by his response, Yuuri continued, “What does it look like though, tell me please.”

“You’ve got two stupid eyes,” he gasped for breath, but saw Yuuri nodding at him to go on.

“One stupid nose. One stupid glasses,” the fact that they were having this conversation in English made the whole exercise more difficult. He had to strain to understand Yuuri’s accent some of the time, and wrack his own brain for the words he wanted to say. He’d never been good at English, all the words got muddled up, it always felt he had to drag them out with his bare hands from the back of his mind.

He felt Yuuri rubbing his shoulders and felt a sharp pain in his jaw all of a sudden from how he’d been clenching his teeth.

“Yes, and what else?” said Yuuri softly.

Yuri felt that his breath was starting to come easier, the ringing in his ears had dulled and the world seemed to swirl about him less. He focussed on the feeling of Yurri’s hands on his shoulders, it was nice; rhythmic and soothing, a thought he’d never admit to having, even under torture.

“Your ugly hair,” a smile and a nod from Yuuri, “It’s black.”

“Your ugly top is red.”

Yuuri laughed at that, it was warm and kind, relieved that he could hear Yuri’s voice returning to normal and his breathing steadying. Yuri sat down on the concrete, drawing his knees up to his chest and all of a sudden, began to cry.

He could see Yuuri’s face blur from the tears welling up in his eyes and he just let them flow down his face and drip off his chin, not sobbing or rubbing at them. Yuuri sat down beside him, hugging him around the shoulders, quietly saying soothing things. Some of them must have been in Japanese, but he caught a few ‘there there’s and “it’s alright”s.

Yuuri fished a pack of tisses out from his bag and handed one to him. He blew his nose, loudly, noticing out of the corner of his eye that Yuuri grimaced a little at that.

“Do you want to tell me about it?” asked Yuuri, he smiled kindly as Yuri looked up at him, the two of them were sitting side by side on the cold, concrete floor of the parking lot.

“No,” said Yuri, and then without a pause, “They were talking about you. And about Viktor.”

“Oh,” said Yuuri, “that he’s only my coach because we’re, um, sleeping together?”

“No, because you’re fucking him,” cut in Yuri.

“Yeah,” he said, blushing a little at Yuri’s bluntness, realising that he hadn’t understood the euphemism, “that.”

“And I don’t know why should I care?” said Yuri, sounding genuinely distressed by the concept, “What’s it to me? But it felt like I was going to,” he mimed vomiting, obviously stuck for the word.

“Has that ever happened before?” asked Yuuri, “that feeling I mean? Like before a competition?”

“No. Never,” said Yuri, shaking his head, “I felt like I was going to die, I'd remember that.”

But if he were being perfectly honest, that feeling, like his soul had left his body, and was floating over his shoulder talking shit about whatever was going on, wasn’t at all a new one.

He remembered being thirteen, sitting in the nutritionist’s office at the sports institute, listening to the old guy talk about diet plans and take measurements of bits and pieces of Yuri’s body. Or not really listening, just fading out and thinking about his body, did it jiggle when he did jumps, did people think he was some pudgy little kid with puppy fat.

The feeling stuck around for weeks after, he couldn’t seem to focus on just doing things, he ended up thinking about what he looked like instead, how was he being seen? Especially when he was eating, the little voice of him watching himself was loudest then, wondering sarcastically what people thought of the little piggy, stuffing his face. He started skipping meals, going for long runs instead, with the music in his headphones turned up too loud, until all he could hear was that and the pounding of the blood in his ears.

This lasted until he visited his grandpa about two week later. He sat, scowling at his lap, balling up the fabric of his jeans in his fists, with a steaming plate of pirozhki sat on the table in front of him. “Yurochka,” said Grandpa gruffly, “you’re going to turn your nose up at the food that your poor, hard working grandfather slaved away all day in the kitchen to make for you?”

Yuri looked up, an anguished expression on his face, “No! Grandpa it’s not that. I-“

His grandfather’s deep, rumbling laugh cut him off, “Yuri Kirillovitch Plisetsky,” he said, laughing, “it is a sin, as you well know, to waste food. I’m sure your coaches would forgive you this, if they knew it was for the good of your poor grandfather’s immortal soul.”

Yuri rolled his eyes, but smiled at his grandpa, who hadn’t been inside a church since he’d been married fifty years ago, and said rude things about the patriarch whenever he was on TV. He helped himself to a pirozhki, feeling the warmth of it in his hands and began to tell a story about something funny Yakov had said the other day at training.

When his grandpa was there it was alright, he was just Yuri. He could just do things as himself and what it all looked like on the outside didn’t matter. But most of the time he didn’t feel like himself at all, he was playing some weird, angry character and at the same time he was in the audience, enjoying - or at least watching – the show.

He didn’t know how to begin to say any of these things to Yuuri though, and just settled on stiffing loudly. “You don’t care about those things they’re saying about you and Viktor?” he asked.

Yuuri shook his head, “It’s not true, so it doesn’t matter.”

“Oh my god, you _would_ say that,” Yuri laughed bitterly, “you come out with all that ‘sexy pork on rice’ shit, it’s obvious you’ve never been meat.”

Yuuri furrowed his eyebrows questioningly, not really seeing what Yuri was trying to say. The language barrier between to two of them seemed to have gotten in the way. Yuri just shook his head, dismissing the point he’d been trying to make.

“I should go back,” he said, sighing dramatically, “Yakov will be having a heart attack probably.”

Yuuri stood up first, reaching down and offering him his hand, he took it, not forgetting to roll his eyes, but letting himself be pulled to his feet.

“I’d better go with you,” said Yuuri, “seeing as I’m missing my own coach today.”

Yuri pulled a face that perfectly captured his absolute disgust with the world and everything in it. “I still don’t see why I have to share my coach with you,” he said as they walked towards the door.

Suddenly, Yuri dashed ahead, holding to door open with one hand, sweeping the other in front of himself in a dramatic bow. “Ladies first,” he said, with poorly disguised relish.

Yuuri just laughed, stepping through into the warmth inside. They walked back into the warm-up area together. They hadn’t so much as stepped in when Yakov bellowed from across the room, “Yuri Kirillovitch Plisetsky! You little --!!”. his face turning beetroot red and his cheeks bulging as words failed him.

“What the hell happened!” he yelled, thundering over to him, “did you fall down the goddamn toilet or something?”

He turned to face a very confused looking Yuuri, “was he picking a fight with you?” he asked, switching to English.

“Oh, no no no!” said Yuuri, waving his hands in front of his face, “I dropped a contact lens, Yurio was helping me look for it.”

Yakov’s expression on hearing that could have been framed and put in the Moscow Museum of Modern Art thought Yuri. Yakov clapped his hands, “Right! Warm up now! If I must babysit both of you, I pray God gives me strength.”

Yuri fished his headphones from the pocket of his jumper and dropped into a calf stretch, watching Yakov walk back to fume at Lilia and Yuuri begin to stretch his quads. It really was impossible to be alone at these competitions, no matter how bad it got, someone always had their eye on you.


End file.
